


As Foolish as Poetry

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: AU: some people survive Scarif, Fluff, Fuzzy canon ish timeline, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Space Spanish, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Whyyyy did the clone wars let boba go to jail, bookish boba
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 19:11:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16898316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: Two children of the Clone Wars meet in a jail's library. One will become a spy, and one, a bounty hunter. A single poem unites them, and in the end, saves them both.PURE FLUFF for a very rare pair.





	As Foolish as Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the line of poetry goes to the poet Octavio Paz, who I think Cassian would read, if Cassian was on our planet.  
> Don't think too much about the timeline, it's a little fuzzy. This whole thing feels very different from my usual fic voice, but I hope it works?  
> Comments always welcome!

There's a library in the prison. It’s the one thing Boba is glad for, in those dark days and cold nights. There’s not much else for him to do. He’s too small for the forced labor most of the older prisoners do, and even the icy guards seem reluctant to tell a child to sit quietly in solitary confinement.   So, they let him go to the library. He reads everything he can get his hands on, starting with the fiction stories he recognizes, and then, moving on to the more boring records of the past. His eyes do light up whenever he stumbles across a section on Mandalore, and he whispers those parts out loud.

It’s one of those times, when he’s whispering the tale of the false clan Rook to himself, that he hears a small, soft sigh, Boba stops talking. “Who’s there?”

“Um. Me.” 

Boba searches around the room. For a ten year old, he’s skilled at analyzing the perimeter, and had been sure he’d been alone. He doesn’t realize that there’s another child the splintering Jedi hadn’t known what to do with, and so, had put him in jail, as a place to hold onto him, until a better plan is made.

He doesn't’ realize that this child’s skill isn’t searching, but hiding.

Neither boy realizes how many plans are being made on Coruscant, far above their jail cells, or how those plans will alter the course of both of their lives.

“I’m not gonna rat you out,” Boba calls. “Whoever you are. Show yourself.”

A young boy unfolds himself from a spot underneath a chair, beyond the stacks of donated holobooks. His tangled mess of brown hair hangs in his eyes, and his clothes are about two sizes too big on his small frame. “I’m Cassian,” he whispers. “Cassian Jeron Andor.”

He says the name reverently, as if it means a great deal to him. Boba knows how that feels, clings to his surname like a survivor in an escape pod.  Other clones don’t have last names. Just him.

“I’m Boba. Boba Fett.”

“You’re stuck here too? What did you do?”

Boba debates how much to say. The boy’s younger than him. Maybe seven. But if he’s in jail too, well, he’s probably no coward. “Blew up some ships. Killed a couple clones. No big deal.” He shrugs, as if those actions don’t haunt his dreams sometimes. No one ever warned him what it was like to shoot at someone with the face of your father. 

With the face he’ll have, in the future, if he lives that long.

Cassian’s brown eyes widen and he whistles appreciatively. “Nice.”

“You, uh, don’t like them?”

“They’re tools of the um, oppressive regime.” He tries out the words, his face scrunching up. “That’s what my papa says, anyway. He was a hero. That’s what I’m gonna be.”

“So he was a Separatist.”

“Somethin’ like that,” Cassian shrugged. “He fought for freedom. That’s what matters.”

“And you did too?”

“I threw rocks an’ bottles at ‘em. Tried to fight! Got dragged here. They said it’s temporarily.”

Lucky kid. Boba knows exactly how many years he’s got left here. Far too many.  He changes the topic. “You read anything good?”

He shakes his head. “Was lookin’ for… hey. You’re tall, maybe you can help.”

Non one’s ever called Boba tall,, so he takes the compliment. “Yeah, what do you need?”

“That book up there! Way up there. The librarian, she, she said that’s where the poetry is.” There’s a faint stutter in Cassian’s words, as if he’s not yet processed how different his life is.

Boba doesn’t know the word poetry. It’s nothing that the Kaminos ever had in their library, and nothing Jango would ever read. But he does know how to drag the ladder over and go up to collect the holobook, then, toss it down to Cassian.

The two of them are both more guarded, and more agile, than other boys their age. But both of them have been through more war than most kids their age, too. Neither one realizes the librarian watches over them and tries hard to let them have this last bit of childhood.

The boy goes back to a small bench, and starts to read. Cautiously, Boba sits next to him. “What’s poetry?”

“It’s the best. Mama always read to me. It’s like… it’s like music, but you say it.” Cassian’s eyebrows furrow. “Here’s my favorite one.” He points one nail-bitten finger at the page on the screen, and starts to read.

Rather, he recites, because Boba can tell the poem he’s saying isn’t the one on the page. It doesn’t matter. The words paint pictures, beyond any he’s ever seen in any book before. They really are like music, he decides, these poems.

It’s foolish, he knows, but he decides to listen. He doesn't know the meaning of the words, but the rhythm alone is musical enough he catches himself whispering it before he goes to bed. Catches himself thinking of the boy as a friend, a dangerous word. 

Catches himself hoping he'll hear more poems like that one.

* * *

 

Months pass. The two boys spend most days in the library, though Cassian is often pulled aside by visiting figures that Boba knows from his father’s databanks. Bail Organa in particular. Boba has the feeling that the well-dressed man is trying to cut a deal with Cassian. 

No one tries to make a deal with Boba.

He’s on his own.

But he does all right with that. Has learned to, over the past three years without his father. Finally, when an escape opportunity presents itself, the only time he wastes is telling Cassian about it.  The boy shakes his head. “I can’t go. I promised I’d talk to them again. They say I can help. I wanna help.”

Helping is stupid, Boba thinks. Helping just gets you killed. But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he says,  “I’ll come back for you.”

“Take this.” 

It’s a scrap of poetry that Cassian copied from one of the books. Boba has listened to him recite it enough times he doesn’t need the paper to know the words, written by Xavia Corria, a poet from Fest. Cassian says he is cousin to Xavia, but Boba doesn’t believe that, because Cassian seems to think he’s cousins to everyone who ever lived on Fest.

But the poem still ends up in Boba’s pocket, and the memory of Cassian’s shy wave goodbye still embeds itself in Boba’s mind.

Poetry is foolish, Boba knows. As foolish as thinking he’ll ever see his friend again. As foolish as believing in a better future.

As foolish as believing someone out there won’t forget him.

* * *

 

Years pass.  Boba grows tall enough to fill out his father’s armor (which is, of course, no surprise, given his DNA) and cold enough to follow his father’s footsteps (again, no surprise at all) but never lets go of one of the few things he never shared with his father.

Poetry.

He’s not foolish enough to try to write it, but he reads it, when there is time, between jobs. It’s amazing how much time there is, when one only lives for work and the work one does is dependent on other’s lives. That was something he hadn’t been prepared for, the waiting. Then again, the other hunters he knows fill that in-between time with family, with lovers, with friends.

He has none of those.

What he has are the small pleasures of a solitary life. He’s no fool, he knows there is a decadence in reading poetry, an absolute flaunting of the rules of practicality that govern his life

When he was a boy, once, one of the Cuy’val Dar brought over an Uj Cake, all sticky-sweet and drenched in frosting. Far more frosting than Jango would ever put on one, on the rare occasions he made one.

Boba had stared at the cake with wide eyes. Jango had warned him not to touch it until after dinner the next day. Told him that even a taste would result in the punishment of all his toys going up for the week.

(When Boba remembers the moment, he can’t believe there was ever a time he had toys, let alone the imagination to play with them.)

A sweet tooth must be a trait of personality and not of nature, because Boba craved sugar in a way Jango never seemed to. Craved it enough to sneak into the kitchen that night, and devour half the cake in messy, sticky handfuls at a time. He knew what he did was wrong, so he decided he might as well do it in the most deliciously wrong way he could. The punishment would be the same for a spoonful of frosting or half a cake. So, instead he ate enough to feel sick from the sugar coursing through him, and fell asleep on the kitchen floor.

In one of those small, tender moments, that hurts him too much to think about often (so of course, those are the moments his dreams give him, over and over, punishing him for daring to hide from their pain in his waking hours) Jango hadn’t punished him. Had just washed his hands for him, and sang an old Mandalorian war song to him as a lullaby.

Songs are poetry, Boba thinks, but knows Jango would have probably disagreed.Then again, at this age, knowing what he does, he would have disagreed with Jango's refusal to punish Boba himself. Didn't Jango realize that doing that spoiled him? Made him believe in a world that consequences could be dropped if one said "sorry" and that the pain of a stomachache or of hunger could be soothed away with a song?

Damn Jango, he thinks, for teaching him the word hope, and then taking it away.

 

* * *

 

Now, at the age of twenty-something, (his ages have rapidly slid into demarcations of events, rather than years. He thinks of himself as two-years-after-leaving-Tatooine, rather than a real number), he consumes poetry the way he’d eaten that cake. Guilty and in secret, reading it fast so that the moment of pleasure didn’t linger.

He read it in bed, in the moments before his eyes slid shut for a little rest before the next job, the next hit, the next bit of reality takes over his life.

Or at least, he usually does.

There’s a private server channel where Xavia Corria pushes out their latest works. Only a few others have access to the channel. Boba assumes they’re all scholars, cooped up in miserable little towers across the galaxy. Boba assumes none of them are touched by the flashpoints of war already starting to ignite across the galaxy.

But there, on that channel, a message flashes. It's in Festian, but Boba's picked up the language, in his quiet time, and translates easily. The same way he learned to translate a poem that had been one of the only gifts he'd ever been given.

_ I soon may die for all I believe in. These words brought me great comfort, in my dark moments. I give them back to you now. Thank you Xavia. -C. _

Boba knows the poem posted below the message. Knows it the way he knows his own heartbeat.  It’s a poem he once had on a scrap of paper, and one he keeps within his heart, even now.  Even if it’s foolish to keep such things; hearts or poems. Both are a weakness.

And Boba knows he should not interfere, any more than he should be wasting time reading poetry. 

But, the punishment is the same for a poem or for a rescue, he decides. Both foolhardy, both caving to desires he wished he could cut away, like he’d learned to ignore his sweet tooth. He hasn’t had uj cake in five years.   He hasn’t had a lover in that amount of time, either.

So, he decides to let himself be punished, this one time, for the action, and not just the wish.  He slices into the channel, gains the coordinates, and lands on Scarif. Landing on a planet targeted for destruction is only half as foolish a thing as reading poetry, at least, in his line of work.

* * *

 

When the two rush out, onto the sand, he is there. It’s an easy collection, from that point, at least for him.  He’s quite skilled at last minute work, although it’s usually not racing  _ against  _  tje Empire’s weapons. The two he collects seem to have some trouble with the idea. But they’re too weak to resist, and he drags them aboard the ship.   He’d only planned to rescue the one, if he rescued anyone at all.  He’ll have to deal with that mess of a situation later. Once the extra one wakes up from her painkiller induced slumber. For now, he sets her in the holding pen area, and carries the other one to his own bed.

It’s the man he’d aimed to rescue. The man with the eyes that, like his happiest moments from his childhood, haunt his dreams. The man who’d gone to Scarif to die, and the man who Boba had saved.

Stupidly.

He’d saved someone.

Only an idiot would do that. A poetry-reading idiot who forgot to ignore his heart.

Helping only caused hurt.

All in all, the idea of being considered a hero by the rebellion made Boba feel worse than the time he’d eaten the Uj Cake. But he still tugs off his helmet when the man wakes, so that his eyes lock onto Boba’s own. Better to get this last, stupidly decadent moment over with sooner, rather than later. 

“You… came back.” Cassian Andor whispers.

“Said I would,” Boba mutters back, a blush heating his face. He can’t control that any more than he could his cravings for sugar.

“Took you long enough.”

Boba just chuckles, dryly. There’s no words left. He’s not the poet.

“Boba,” Cassian begins.

“You know me?”

“Said I wouldn’t forget.” There’s bruises on Cassian’s cheek, but a fire in his eyes. “Haven’t yet.”

If there was any chance Boba might find something to say, it dies in the next moment. Because Cassian reaches out. Not to pass him a scrap of poem, but to squeeze his hand, tightly.

Boba bends down to kiss him, something he knows will be easier than speaking, and something he’s more skilled at than holding hands. They kiss. Not as hard as he wants to, given the man’s injured condition. But he’s shocked to find Cassian returning the kiss, his hand going to the back of Boba’s neck and holding him against him. The kiss is a devouring one. Why settle for only a taste when the other is so warm, so willing?

The poets in their towers would probably describe the kiss better than Boba could. But to him, the kiss is everything, and that is enough of a word to thrill and terrify him.

* * *

 

Boba stays like that for a long time, until slowly, they move to shed their other clothes. He’s careful of the injuries, in the same way Cassian is careful of the scars. But other than that, Boba is reckless in his pursuit of the other man’s pleasure.

Same punishment for a taste, or the whole cake.

It’s about time he lets himself have the whole cake, the whole poem, the whole emotion.

They learn a different sort of poetry together, in those long hours, stretched out in his narrow bed. Breath words of passion against flushed skin, and press bodies together in rhythm more perfect than any meter.

After, Cassian’s head rests on Boba’s chest.

What’s done is done.

He’ll pay the price, he knows. But that price, like so many others, will come due later. For now, he holds Cassian in his arms, and lets him whisper the poem to him once more.

Poetry is foolish, Boba knows. As foolish for falling in love with a man who he hasn’t spoken to in almost twenty years.

But it’s not half as foolish as trying to pretend he’s not happy, here, in this small, quiet moment with Cassian’s hand still holding his.

He whispers the poem himself, for the first time. To do so is to indulge in a foolishness he'd never dreamed of, a foolishness as strong as the dream of this moment lasting forever.

_ Entre ahora y ahora entre yo soy y tú eres la palabra puente. _


End file.
